“The Spins” by McKenzie Janisz

TABLE OF CONTENTS

POETRY

the plunge

by Ashley Martucci

the ocean, congested with humans remains a herbivore
doesn’t she feel the weight of overpopulation crevassing into her chest
stuffed entirely full, another spoonful of fish in your mouth
remarkably grotesque.
Build me a fire, Mite of the coals!
I want to know how to start one without using my hands
blue virgin sky in all your cloudless shine
Could you take me up, far away across the land
pass the fluffy-haired heads of all the Pines
dismember the arms of the Grandfather clock
stand by the edge, and jump off the dock

About the Contributor & Piece

Ashley Martucci (she/her) is an English and Literary Studies Major at Ramapo College. Ashley is a transfer student, completing her degree to become a Librarian. She is a DJ for WRPR and frequents the Women’s Center. Ashley enjoys writing, playing guitar, and watching movies. Her favorite poem is Stepping Backward by Adrienne Rich.”

“This piece started as a final stanza to another poem I was writing. I don’t often play with rhyme although the plunge roughed me into tune. There is relentless mixed metaphor. I wanted to create a space for myself. I was yearning for strength of the mind and craving extraordinary power. I wanted to stop time. It’s about disorientation, displacement, and dejection.” – Ashley Martucci

Earth Lore

by Chantal Peña Martinez

In youth, you put faith
on bonds held
by trivial facts like favorite colors
or who you tag at recess.
Differences melt
better than butter.

Time passes and people become more aware
of a world presented in venn diagrams.
You study classes, backgrounds, and hair,
or simply who might help you pass the exam.

People start finding megaphones
supporting what they stand for.
Others stick to pepper spray,
scared to live another day.
Hear the gunshots and fireworks,
set off by politics, religion, and war.

Score a dream job, strive, and perform.
Follow hopes, pick a door.
In place of wealth, here’s a chore.
Don’t forget, tomorrow you gotta do more.

About the Contributor & Piece

Chantal Peña Martinez (she/her) is a senior visual arts major with a concentration in photography. She is also a proud immigrant and first-generation student. Besides her love for photography, Chantal loves to write and has written many poems and prose pieces, using writing as a second creative outlet.

Earth Lore is a reflection on how often we humans, as we grow up, focus more on our differences than our similarities. We have different ways of developing and maturing, but in the end we should all strive to do our best and spread kindness.

Still Supper

by Katherine Moldow

About the Contributor & Piece

Katherine Moldow (she/her) is a transfer junior Visual Arts major with a concentration in photography. She’s been seriously taking photos for about 6 years now, and have taken some great photography courses along the way. Capturing the world with a camera is so incredibly special to her.

“There is a family of deer that often reside on this hill on campus for their meals. The one in the photo caught my eye one day as I was walking to class. There is a contrast between each detail that ultimately makes up the scene. The lush green grass along with the gentle and young deer, against the boulder and the wind agitating the tree is what made me take out my camera. At the same time, the boulder is framing or almost protecting the deer in a way. This image can be split up any way or seen from any perspective, that’s what I appreciate about it.” – Katherine Moldow

Still Supper was taken with a digital camera.

Dad

by Amanda Jones

The last time I got my teeth cleaned,
The assistant asked if I wanted any
Numbing cream on my gums
And I refused because I wanted
To see how much of the pain
I could handle before the tears came.

And when I broke my thumb,
I let it bruise and blue until
It went numb with neglect
To see how awful it could get,
Or if it would heal itself without
An expensive trip to the doctor.

He says I can tough it all out
Because I am from him,
And a visible bone wouldn’t
Attract sobs to the eyes he
Had given me by accident.

They are green, with a little
Blue ring around the iris.
My blood is a deep scarlet,
And my scars are a light peach
Raised from my italian olive tone,
A gift from my mother.

He begs me to take care
Of the skin he had a hand
In forming, to call before
I torch it with the smoldering
Marlboro from the gas station
Just around the corner.

And in a way, I feel obligated to,
After all, I am a product of him.
But if that is the truth then why
Can’t I be that strong, that capable
Of pushing through even the
Darkest of days and coldest of nights?

You’ve got my blood coursing through your veins.
When it flows from my cuts,
My gums and my bitten fingernails,
Does it hurt him too?

About the Contributor & Piece

Amanda Jones is a lover of dogs, pasta, and a good piece of writing.

River of Fog

by Cameron Adamson

About the Contributor & Piece

Cameron Adamson is a student at Ramapo College.

“This was taken from the summit of Mt. Tammany, looking towards Mt. Minisi across the NJ-PA line, with the Delaware River just below the fog. It took me a few months to time this photo perfectly because the mist tends to disperse quickly around 10:00 a.m. If you arrive too early in the year, the fog does not appear, and if you arrive too late in the year, the fog does not settle near to the ground and instead remains on top of the mountain before dispersing. I used a DJI Mini 2 that my grandfather had passed down to me, and I’m thrilled I was able to shoot such a beautiful photo with it!” – Cameron Adamson

Thoughts of a Monarch Butterfly

by Elly Raisch

When you exist between bluegrass and plexiglass  it is 
hard not to question the fragility of your existence  

(Flower over there?)  

I would sooner fall out of the sky dead  
than see myself pressed between the panes 

 (It is a flower)  

Forever a display of achievements unknown to me  

(Time to rest)

About the Contributor & Piece

Elly Raisch (she/her) is a junior International Studies major and Anthropology minor. She does
not write poetry often, but enjoys it when she does.

“Thoughts of a Monarch Butterfly was inspired by watching different butterflies around campus
and wondering what they may think. It is also not about butterflies at all, but is instead about
dealing with the parts of ourselves that are involuntarily dissected, compartmentalized, and
displayed by the communities in which we exist.” – Elly Raisch

Cynic’s Song

by Thomas Kelly

On crystalline paths of wounded ways
A cyclical prophecy defines its haze.
A prayer confounding through its dreams
Caught up inside space between.

When cynics deny inherent trust
Denouncements ring atop the bluff.
So when it jumped they thought it fell
Into a sky of dull pastels.

But it glides on wings of phoenix red,
The apothecary melts at summer’s shed.
So molt the skin to hear the stars,
Their liminal hymn of human farce.
The years have split the psalmy hand
So that glass may now pass through to sand.

About the Contributor & Piece

Thomas Kelly is a Junior English Major with a Biology Minor. Among other hobbies, he spends a lot of his time writing poetry as a way to understand the world and himself better.

Who is She?

by Nicole Dipre

About the Contributor & Piece

Nicole Dipre (any pronouns) is a sophomore Visual Arts major with a concentration in Drawing and Painting and a minor in Creative Writing.

Who is She? is a journal entry for Nicole’s Art as Therapy class. It expresses the different shades of Nicole’s feminine identity and self-image, how they contrast and come together as she performs as a woman. She drew it on sketchbook paper with colored pencils.

what to expect by age 25

by Devon Roberts

1. Still, you are the only sober one. 
2. You can no longer expect a card in the mail from your mom.  
3. Your naivety has stopped growing. 
It fuses with your breastbone into a vestigial shield. 
4. Most of your childhood 
plans haven't worked out; 
you're not sure if 15-year-old-you would be proud 
5. Loved ones flinch at seeing you grow; unqualified 
to hide their disappointment
seeing the seeds they'd sown still ungrown. 
6. Some of your friends are dead. 
7. The quality of your poetry accelerates 
or ebbs with grief, and this makes you feel like a vampire. 
8. You hate milk. 
9. You begin listing the things you want 
to do and swear you'll make it happen this time.
10. You never stop listing.
11. As a mental exercise, you imagine what sex would be like with the just divorced barista negotiating who will get the kids on Christmas. You psychically kiss, date, fuck, and dump him in the time it takes to make your coffee. 
12. It's been 11 years since your last near-death experience. 
13. A murmur from your stomach reminds—it's not all about you.
14. This is your third body.
15. Once a boardwalk psychic sat you in her store and prayed with your hands to her gray head. She hummed open-mouth and rubbed your ear. Instead of divining your future, she hugged you. She pushed a cool stone into your palm and turned away. 
16. This is your tenth home. 
17. The calendar reminds you it’s getting late.
18. You're just glad that the bed sheets are clean. 
19. You rarely give yourself time or space to finish what you started. 

About the Contributor & Piece

Devon S Roberts is a writer and artist from Frenchtown, NJ.

Carebear Cult

by Geninah Intoy

About the Contributor & Piece

Geninah Intoy (she/her) is a Junior majoring in Visual Arts with a concentration in Drawing and Painting, as well as being a part of the Teacher Education program. As an artist, she strives to create pieces that bring back the fun that drew her to pursue art.
Carebear Cult is a satire of fans who, may or may not, take their love of their show, movie, etc. too far. It was made using watercolor and colored pencil on 17×14 Bristol paper.

The Spins

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

A serenely still shot, The Spins shows a rider at his peak, suspended in the air, but, of course, he must eventually come down – Even worse, he’ll have a bad case of the spins when he gets off. And that’s life. But for now, for one moment, he is on top of the world.

BOXED IN GLASS FOR GOOD REASON

by Ashley Martucci

Men have always been an acquisition
Merely a win in a claw machine

I would’ve named any one of these cheap toys
By the same name
And I would’ve treated him as sweet

You see it does not matter
What the claw grasps 
As your hands hold the joystick just the same
You will soon be cradling the frail pet

You will care for him as your own
Feed
Clothe
Love tenderly
Speak to him softly beneath the harvest moonlight

You will lose him
Drop him through the subway grate
Toss him too high into the wind
Mock him deep into the powerful blue

You will find him
He is every bubble in the sink
He is resting on every bed of pollen blown in the breeze
He is every dead fish, encasing the surface in sweet sulfur

You will win him.
You will empty your pockets of tight change
At every arcade along every abandoned cape
You will show him off, of course, they’re proud of this
However plastic, you had won.

I urge you to save your quarters.

About the Contributor & Piece

Ashley Martucci (she/her) is an English and Literary Studies Major at Ramapo College. Ashley is a transfer student, completing her degree to become a Librarian. She is a DJ for WRPR and frequents the Women’s Center. Ashley enjoys writing, playing guitar, and watching movies. Her favorite poem is Stepping Backward by Adrienne Rich.

“I wrote BOXED IN GLASS FOR GOOD REASON when I felt alienated repetitively in my heterosexual relationships. I felt the responsibility of motherhood weigh in, where it simply had no place. I felt repetitiveness in the structure of finding and losing a man. Each experience was further from love than the last. Throughout the poem, I reference claw machines, the art of losing change, and the catch and release of a fish—all merely motions.” – Ashley Martucci

Victorian Heart

by Dana Livelli

I don't want to love anymore
I want a cold, black gate
Lock me away, wrought iron fate
I am not bound to you,
These floods deceive 
When clung to the power of  false belief
A steel pickaxe charges way through dirt,
if cutting up rocks and roots does hurt
then whisper, dear Earth, and make it clear:
The opposite of love isn't hate,
it’s fear

About the Contributor & Piece

Poet, singer/songwriter, and future English teacher are just some of the many hats in Dana Livelli’s collection. Interested in the dynamics of family, love, and relation to the Self, Dana uses written word as a vehicle of expression and understanding. By exploring her own peculiar world, she hopes to bring others a common thread of connection as they foot their own paths.

The World, Again

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

The World, Again is quite simple, asking for reflection at the end of the day as we let out the breath we didn’t realize we had been holding. It asks us to stop for a moment and allow ourselves to see and experience the world again–to renew our perspective.

the sunrise’s embrace

by Allison Contreras

at 5 a.m., i used to rise, 
each morning to catch the sun's first light. 
stepping from my warm embrace of slumber, 
i'd open my window wide, welcoming the dawn's pour. 
in its brilliance, i'd willingly drown. 

beneath the daylight's gentle glow, i stood, 
pondering, "is this how life should be lived?" 
hidden from the world, 
clinging to the colors of the sky each morning for meaning. 

caged within my bedroom walls, i felt confined. 
as if trapped between a roaring storm and a sunny meadow, 
uncertain of which way to go. 

but as the mourning doves' song grew louder, 
and those heavy thoughts passed, 
for a lingering moment, my world became still and peaceful. 
free of pain, free of weight. 

only light and balance left and a gentle bliss that whispered, 
a reminder to persevere and overcome. 
this bliss, a soft utterance of encouragement, 
echoed, urging me to keep going. 

and as the daylight swathed my room and graced my skin with 
warmth, 
a torrent of emotion traced down my cheeks. 
a hint of salt painted on my lips, a rosy flush overcame me. 

but these were not tears sown from sorrow's field, they were 
rivulets of catharsis, cascading in gratitude 
and hope. gratitude that i was able to greet the sunrise once more, and hope that i 
will live to see it again tomorrow. 

-a.c.o., july 2023

About the Contributor & Piece

Allison Contreras-Ortiz is a Senior Psychology and Spanish Language Studies major at Ramapo College of New Jersey, who has a strong commitment to her community. She stands as a powerful advocate for the inclusivity and welfare of others, and a strong believer in mental health care and suicide prevention.

Postcard from Nil

by Devon S Roberts

About the Contributor & Piece

Devon S Roberts is a writer and artist from Frenchtown, NJ.

Postcard from Nil is a digital mixed media piece made in Procreate.

Papa & The Pumpkins

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. Though new to visual art, she has taken a quick liking to this traditional medium.

Papa & The Pumpkins is an acrylic painting with felt-tip marker on canvas. It depicts a humble barbershop quartet with pumpkins of all shapes and sizes performing for a ghostly audience. Needless to say, the ghosts are thoroughly enjoying the show. But the mystery remains: Which pumpkin is Papa?

Pe(s)ts

by Jessica Gray

There’s a colony of mice in my skull.
They’re really wrecking the place.
It started with only one-
sad how one makes you prone to more.

It’s a wonder I’m not sicker.
All the droppings and chewed wires everywhere-
even the ceiling sags with urine.
Every day I wonder why my rent is so damn high.

They get neurotic when I sleep,
running across my eyelids and squeezing my lungs.
Some nights I can’t sleep because I’m too afraid of them.
I can’t help but think of moving out from time to time...

I found instructions to make mouse traps online,
spent months preparing myself.
It took years to finally make them.
The only thing they snap on are my toes.

They stumbled around my arteries like they had a few too many.
I drew my own blood, hoping they’d find their way out.
I took away their food, hoping they’d starve.
They chewed my hair as my stomach growled.

Some of the mice look at me with kind eyes.
One of them licks away my tears on bad nights.
Sometimes I forget this is exactly what they wanted to happen
Or maybe they didn’t think I’d live this long, either.

When I asked for a pet, this isn’t what I was thinking of.

About the Contributor & Piece

Jessica C. Gray (she/her/hers) is transfer student double majoring in psychology and art therapy. Her medium of choice is drawing with pencil or charcoal, and she also dabbles in writing poetry and fiction. Her work highlights her unique perspective and background, along with rich social commentary and evocative subject matter.

“I wrote this poem when I was beginning my journey in recovery. During that time, I wrote a lot about trauma, and I also explored some abstract ways of conveying messages through text and visual art. This is one of the dozens of poems that I wrote during this stage in my life and it is one that I’m still really proud of. At the time, I felt it was described well by a quote from Blythe Baird’s poem, Fossilizing Trauma, where she said she writes poetry to turn the things that have happened to her into tangible objects, “so they can no longer hurt me— / they can only stare at me // which isn’t as bad, I guess.” While this poem doesn’t necessarily reflect where I am currently at in my recovery journey, I still hold on to it as a reminder of where I have been. Now I see it as a reminder that things can change, that things can get better. For me, its meaning has shifted from abject hopelessness to being a symbol of hope. 

This poem helped me feel less alone when I needed it most. I hope sharing this could help someone, anyone feel like they aren’t the only person who has felt this way.

I promise things do get better.” – Jessica C. Gray

Rat King

by Devon S Roberts

About the Contributor & Piece

Devon S Roberts is a writer and artist from Frenchtown, NJ.

Rat King is a digital art piece painted in Procreate.

How to Cope with the Loss of a Pet

by Danielle Bongiovanni

For Pepper

Comb your camera roll for every blurry photo,
And save two backup copies.

Swallow your anger at your parents
For not calling you, for not thinking
You could've made it home in time.
Thank them for bringing you his collar.

Keep it in your backpack
Each time you take a hike.

Swallow your anger at your friends
For still having unconditional love and
Soft fur to run their fingers through.
Thank them for letting you cry.

Reread "Dog Songs" by Mary Oliver
And wish you were a better poet.

Swallow your anger at yourself
Because the last time you visited him it rained,
So you promised you'd walk him later.

Clip a leash to the love left with nowhere to go
And drag it behind you like a dead dog.

About the Contributor & Piece

Danielle Bongiovanni (he/she/they) is an environmental science major with an environmental studies minor. Her work has appeared in en*gendered, Apprentice Writer, SpitPoet Zine and You Might Need To Hear This. He enjoys fantasy, horror, and local journalism.

They wrote this poem as way of dealing with their grief over the unexpected loss of their dog. Pepper was a terrier mix who played hard and loved harder, and he will be missed by all of the hearts he touched.

Bella the Cat

by Daynah Stockwell

About the Contributor & Piece

Daynah Stockwell (she/her) is a junior Communication Arts major with a concentration in Digital Filmmaking. She chose to submit a photo of her cat Bella because the feline has been her muse for multiple projects including her winning entry in RCTV’s 52 Hour Film Challenge earlier this semester. Bella is her childhood pet, who will be 16 years old in July, having been by Daynah’s side all throughout her life, and she is honored that Bella’s photo will be eternalized in Trillium. Daynah is also a tutor at the Center for Reading and Writing, so stop by and see her for any future reading or writing needs!

Bella the Cat was digitally photographed on a Panasonic LUMIX G95 camera.

Forest Fire

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

Forest Fire was taken in early June 2023 during the Canadian forest fires, hence the rather blunt name. Hastily taken, the photo captures the orange air thick with smoke and the contrasted plants and sculpture shown mainly through their silhouettes, viewed from the inside of a home.

Poem With a Line From Antonio Machado’s “Summer Night”

by Maria Touw

Is it not
A beautiful summer night?
Lay down,
Unlock your jaw,
And breathe
In the dewy grass.
 Sink 
Into the dirt;
As if you were finally returning
To Mother Earth.

About the Contributor & Piece

Maria Touw is a senior undergraduate student working for a degree in English and Literary Studies at Ramapo.

Dragonfly

by Catherine Sopko

About the Contributor & Piece

Catherine Sopko is in her last semester at Ramapo as a Psychology major with a double minor in Human Resource Management and Crime and Justice Studies. She has been doing photography in her spare time since she was 10 years old.

120

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

“This shot was taken on the day I began dating my partner. We are pictured here,
together at sunset, looking out toward the future of what may come. We joke about the 120 years we will have together, and so, for him, I call this photo 120.” – McKenzie Janisz

Target

by Jules-Arden Bernard

About the Contributor & Piece

Jules-Arden Bernard (they/them or he/him) is a Visual Arts Major with a concentration in Electronic Arts and Animation, with a Minor in Creative Writing. They are an animator and writer from South Jersey who loves to focus on interpersonal and introspective circumstances in their writing. Much of their work delves into how one’s identity, mental health, and corner of the world defines someone’s own story, and the beauty (and grit) that may come with it. Outside of writing, Jules could be found sneaking off to the woods or trying to figure out how to befriend the local crow population.

“This portrait ties into the vulnerability that comes with being an openly queer individual. Being out can be empowering, while still having unseen consequences today. Even without realizing it, living in authenticity can feel like putting a target on their back, which was a feeling I aimed to portray in this piece.” – Jules-Arden Bernard

Target is a digital photograph.

Cortisone

by Peyton Bortner

Yesterday the rain outshined our tears
When we buried Bruno in the garden.
You dug the hole, I filled it up,
and we marked the spot with a stone.

When I’d cry, you’d offer a cat to me,
knowing their warmth and soft nature
would console me and my longing
to cup Bruno in my hands again.

Tonight, I wanted to say farewell,
since I knew we would be heading
back to North Jersey by morning,
where we’d stay for a while.

I mistakenly wore sandals, I forgot
we had buried him in the center of
a ring of poison ivy sprouts.
I was ready to sacrifice my skin.

But you, my darling, you decided
to carry me into the garden upon
your back, determined to give me
the visitation I so desired.

I only realize now your ankles were exposed.

About the Contributor & Piece

Peyton Bortner (she/her) is an English and Literary Studies major with a concentration in Creative Writing. She focuses on writing fantasy prose and has only recently started to experiment with poetry. She is the President of Literature Club and the Ramapo chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the English honor society, as well as the Arts & Entertainment Editor for the Ramapo News. She loves Nintendo, Jim Henson, and animals (especially hamsters <3).

“I started writing poetry this semester for my classes when my emotional support hamster and best friend, Bruno, had to be put to rest at the vet. It was a very dark time, but I was able to push through it because of my loved ones and poetry. This piece in particular is about my partner, Dante, who drove me home to South Jersey to bury Bruno and actually carried me into the garden the night before we were to return to campus.” – Peyton Bortner

Bare Your Soul

by Jules-Arden Bernard

About the Contributor & Piece

Jules-Arden Bernard (they/them or he/him) is a Visual Arts Major with a concentration in Electronic Arts and Animation, with a Minor in Creative Writing. They are an animator and writer from South Jersey who loves to focus on interpersonal and introspective circumstances in their writing. Much of their work delves into how one’s identity, mental health, and corner of the world defines someone’s own story, and the beauty (and grit) that may come with it. Outside of writing, Jules could be found sneaking off to the woods or trying to figure out how to befriend the local crow population.

“Coming out as a queer person is rarely an easy feat. Whether it’s to a new acquaintance or somebody someone could know for years, opening the conversation about your own identity can feel like ripping yourself open for somebody else’s opinion, or a contiuous baring of the soul. As a transmasculine, nonbinary individual, I’ve found my own experiences with coming out both terrifying and empowering, and wanted to visualize that sort of dichotomy through photography.” – Jules-Arden Bernard

Bare Your Soul is a digital photograph.

Don’t Fall in Love With an Artist

by McKenzie Janisz

they’ll love all of your imperfections
and won’t worry about blurring the flaws,
because all your rhyme had a reason,
all your action had a cause

they’ll detail the scars you left,
to find beauty in the pain,
trail their body with lush petals
and let the light wash it away

they’ll outline your delicate figure
and paint you with gentle hands.
they’ve devised the color palette that makes up you,
and they bring you to new lands

they’ll make you something more
than you could ever be,
they saw potential in your heart
and still they chose to leave

to fall in love with an artist
is to be bound by memory—
to live in the rose colored lens,
the beauty you did not see

and when you lose that love,
they’ll immortalize you in the stars,
so no matter where you stray,
the artist’s vision is never far.

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She began writing poetry and music in elementary school, forming countless “bands” on the playground at recess. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

Don’t Fall in Love With an Artist describes the immortalization of personal experiences, and, naturally, romantic partners and relationships, in art. The artist exaggerates and transforms every detail into something larger-than-life, conveying their raw emotions, but also creating an image that can never be shaken off. When you inspire art, your circumstances graduate beyond you, imprinted in the world forever.

Molly in the Pinwheel Park by Herself

by Nicole Dipre

Molly, my Sun, you know I’d believe you 
if you said the world was yours. 

Glistening sweat indistinguishable 
from dew drops on raised arm hairs, you lay 
dazed in a Chelsea playground. 

Coming down, shivering, arching your spine. Starburst 
soaking, staring into curving laced skies in oak trees. Stars 
or street lights coming down on clumped lashes, sprinkled glitter, 
cheekbones of cheap rhinestones.
I believe you. Soothe your burning in a kiss. It’s like this, 
the breeze to squeeze, grit your teeth, 
cool the heat sweet in clenched thighs. 
Honeymoon, the Earth and her bride.

Warm and dry tongue of cotton, gin white 
skirt translucent on cold wet skin, neon 
snow angel in the summer rain,
giggling, a sigh, drunk on life.

I witness and whisper you could pretend
to be embarrassed. Or not. Don’t 
hide. Not yet. 

I believe you because 
you cry with your heart open,
because your heart is not bulletproof. 
It’s contagious and I can’t look away.

Nearly blinding, irresistible fire, 
I can’t look away. 

About the Contributor & Piece

Nicole Dipre (any pronouns) is a sophomore Visual Arts major with a concentration in Drawing and Painting and a minor in Creative Writing. 

Molly in the Pinwheel Park by Herself was initially inspired by her wonder about a discarded and lonely yet vibrant vodka bottle laid face up in Pinwheel Park, located in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. She was intrigued by its story, who drank it, and who left it in the chilly summer rain. Nicole turned this object into a person, a party girl who took on the city and now resting with the world in dewy grass. With love, she graced Molly with an unapologetic, enchanting, shimmering character that she admires finding in her friends, strangers, and herself.

Harvest

by Danielle Bongiovanni

This has turned my skin as tender as a pear's.
A sigh could slit me open, spill the juice with ease,
Pluck my heart like the ripest apple on the tree.
You don't even know you have the power, do you?
Wouldn't believe me if I told you.

Darling, if you made me bleed
It would turn to wine beneath your gaze.
It would numb the pain, it would taste sweeter
Than your wildest dreams.

About the Contributor & Piece

Danielle Bongiovanni (he/she/they) is an environmental science major with an environmental studies minor. Her work has appeared in en*gendered, Apprentice Writer, SpitPoet Zine and You Might Need To Hear This. He enjoys fantasy, horror, and local journalism.

The Age of Pride

by Maryn Anderson

About the Contributor & Piece

Maryn Anderson (she/her) is an English major in the Teacher Education track. She has been taking photographs since she was 14. Taking photos has always been a way to both preserve memories as well as interpret the world around her.

“The photo I submitted was one I took while at NYC Pride back in June. The heat was stifling, and I paid way too much for sunscreen from a nearby CVS. Yet despite the dehydration and the sweat that coated my skin and kept the strap of my camera practically glued to my neck, it filled me with joy to see so many people both young and old in attendance. I think it spoke volumes on the spirit of queer pride.” -Maryn Anderson

The Age of Pride was taken 35mm film with a Canon EOS Rebel G.

Rocko in Technicolor

by Allison Steele

About the Contributor & Piece

Allison Steele (she/her) is a Global Communication and Media major. She is aromantic and asexual, and an aspiring writer who also draws for fun!

“I have always been enamored with black and white 1930s cartoons, especially those made by Fleischer Studios. They have a somewhat more raucous and occult vibe to them than Mickey Mouse or Porky Pig; one of my favorites is Betty Boop in Snow White. I think there is a lot of artistic potential to be found in playing with the color (or lack thereof), musicality, and style of this animation genre, and I would love to someday tell a story with a character like Rocko the Cat.” – Allison Steele

The four “Rocko in Technicolor” pieces depicting this original character started as traditional hand-drawn sketches, and were then digitally lined and colored using the software Paint Tool Sai.

I Sit and Shake My Legs

by Paige Alis Dammers

I sit and shake my legs
filled with caffeine buzzing
in veins both red and blue,
pumping life inside my skin,
suit beating with warmth,
and I am, and the world is, cold.

Wind breaks, cold
glass piercing shards into my legs,
sweet warmth
bubbling to the surface of my unshaven stubble, buzzing
everywhere excited and the blood beneath my skin
jumps; and the sky is blue—

Blue!
the clouds must be cold.
Their misty skin
trickles down as rain from foggy legs,
sprinkles of frost buzzing
and silenced by our Earthly warmth.

That familiar warmth,
with roots of brown and worms of blue
and tiny bugs whose bodies are always buzzing;
rocks dripping cold,
wet energy from the caves, dangling legs
forming the deepest, richest, subterranean skin

eventually encapsulating everything, a supple and silky skin
that glows in the calming warmth
of our eyes, our hands, our faces, our legs,
our gold and copper sun, our sky where she sits, perched in a blue
palace, soaring beyond that cold
from below, and above, and buzzing.

and buzzing, and buzzing,
in the sea, the rock, the dirt, my skin,
in static; cold.

Yet the soul retains its warmth,
after the sun dips back into black and blue,
setting down off her flaming legs—

Those legs that shake and are still buzzing.
So when chilling blue wraps around my pink skin
I shall find the warmth in that cold.

About the Contributor & Piece

Paige Alis Dammers is a Visual Arts student, and a lover of poetry and tattoo artistry. One life goal she has is to write a book, and whatever it may be about she is yet to discover. She have a deep love for my friends and family, and enjoys nothing more than sharing her art and poetry!

Deer carcass on the side of the road

by LeighAnn Sevastian

I
I meet you in March
fur still wet and guts still red
but April rots you.

II
Now a cold rain comes
batters your bloated body
and you come apart.

About the Contributor & Piece

Leigh Ann Sevastian (they/them) is an English & Literary Studies major with a minor in Human Rights & Genocide Studies. They really love the outdoors and Northeastern wildlife.

“I wrote this pair of haiku about a deer carcass on Ramapo Valley Road that I saw every day for at least a month during the spring semester, and that needed to be memorialized.” – Leigh Ann Sevastian

All That the Light Touches

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

This photo was taken on the path leading to the front doors of the Berrie Center on Ramapo’s campus. Deviating from The Lion King’s notion of “everything that the light touches” that extends across the vast land, All That the Light Touches highlights a smaller sphere of influence, depicting our relationship network where our deepest connections shine the brightest.

Reasons for Living/Dying

by Devon Roberts

I should write about brains with enough chemicals 
to keep the fridge filled, the begonias alive, 
that exercise appropriate fear of open spaces.

I want to want to write about nuclear families 
in a big pink house: Juno and their pink son, Finn. 
Juno makes sandwiches with beets and passion fruit tea. 
Juno’s pink wife was expecting another baby until 
she woke up, and her sheets were stained blue. 

Maybe I’ll write about life before 
pouring aluminum in my ears 
and cutting up all my clothes
(except for the golden leotard). 

I should, but life works hard 
to empty itself of all the right things.
Once, it really scared the hell out of me
when he offered me a kiss on the cheek
which turned my face all swirly. 

When my head comes back, things are gonna be different. 
Before I’m crushed by the metal filling up holes in my bones.

About the Contributor & Piece

Devon S Roberts is a writer and artist from Frenchtown, New Jersey.

An Ode to the Tree 

by Nischal Bhandari

There is a tall, sturdy tree outside the windowpane. 
It sits sometimes with the silence of mountains — 
Sometimes it stirs with the violence of storms. 

There must be agony outside this humming head. 
The tree shivers in incessant fears. 
Overhead the tree, birds are fleeing despite their heart-woven nests. 
At the bottom of the tree, a squirrel is bound to be a squirrel forever. 

Everything all around is bound to be themselves. 
What ghastlier tragedy is there than this — 
To exist in the painstaking details of oneself — 
While only a few fragments appeal to us? 

Maybe it is just this lunatic mind painting this whole world with its colors. 
Because in the frequent observation of the tree in its ever-changing states, 
There never were days when the tree yearned for the wings of birds. 

Maybe the tree serves the world the most by being a tree. But if the 
mind dared to stop forcing its opinions into the world — What 
does the tree care about the furniture trapped inside?

About the Contributor & Piece

Nischal Bhandari (he/him/his) is a senior and international student majoring Bioinformatics and Data Science at Ramapo. He loves trees and thought of writing an ode for them. The result was this poem.

Scratt the Squirrel

by Mya Schmidhauser

About the Contributor & Piece

Mya Schmidhauser (she/her) is a biology major looking to pursue Physical Therapy, and for as long as I can remember I have loved taking photos! I often take my camera around campus to de-stress; this picture came from one of those times in the Spring 2023 semester.

Scratt the Squirrel was taken on a Canon EOS R5 camera.

Dedication

by Devon S Roberts

About the Contributor & Piece

Devon S Roberts is a writer and artist from Frenchtown, NJ.

The Strange

by McKenzie Janisz

An endless sea of doors ahead,
condemned to test them all.
Knowing the keys I have won’t work,
I travel back and forth, and back and forth,
wandering wall to wall.

My hope wanes and waxes with the moon,
a cyclical force of nature.
A mockery, a trick, a cheat—
my heart set as the wager.

I spiral down and as I go,
I think there may be light,
with heavy body and scrambled mind,
I try and try, to fight.

But like the phases of the moon,
my soul, too, cannot be changed.
The doors remain locked,
and though I knock, and knock,
I’m made to look, but never touch,
to want but never have.
I’m made to dream, but never achieve,
I’m made to be the Strange.

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She began writing poetry and music in elementary school, forming countless “bands” on the playground at recess. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

The Strange conveys the longing for authentic and meaningful connections on the autism spectrum. Given a different set of “keys” than everyone else, the speaker struggles to connect with others beyond the surface, grappling with feelings of isolation and helplessness.

Clock tower 2*

by Frank Husarek

About the Contributor & Piece

Frank Husarek is an environmental science major.

Clock tower 2* is a digital photograph of the Hoboken Train Station taken at dusk.

PROSE

Excerpt from “Oscar’s Lighthouse“

by  Jules-Arden Bernard

I continued to hide out at that lighthouse as some of the years went on. My sketches grew sharper and I’d always pass by Oscar, who’d occasionally ask about how school was going, if I was selling my artwork yet, or why I never came up with other people. He only chuckled when I returned the question. 

“Who in their right mind would climb these ‘ere stairs more than once if they didn’t have to?”
“My point exactly,” I teased. Of course, I never really needed to be there with people. As years passed, I started to understand why Oscar would talk to himself more often than not. There’s a comfortable disconnect when you’re the only one above sea level. It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of the waves below you as they continue to attack the jetty– there’s a heartbeat in the high tide that becomes therapeutic after long enough.

As strange as it may seem, I also found a sense of comfort in Oscar, himself. He was a good man. His smile was carved into his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, his hair poorly concealing the sunburn that painted the top of his head. He never yelled, it seemed. He smiled at people who were smaller than him, people who were angrier than him. I’d bet that he didn’t have a violent bone in his body. It was a comforting change of pace I could only seem to find at the lighthouse; a good, kind old man. 

~~~

There was this painting I studied once. “Paternal Love” by Étienne Aubry. I saw Oscar as a figure in that painting the first time he brought Siersha to the lighthouse, her small hand in his. She waved at me from across the balcony, her eyes matching the deep green that spanned across the horizon in front of the three of us. Siersha was bright– a human rocket with tangled hair. Whenever I’d see her, she was peering through the binoculars that were mounted along the railings or telling stories to Oscar, who would nod in agreement, amazed at the crab she saw for the fifth time. Occasionally, I’d let her scribble over my sketches, my work being complimented with smiley faces and fairies. They became my favourite pages.

~~~ 

Siersha grew quickly. Either that, or the rest of my schooling went too fast for me to remember. I continued to relax by the beach, she continued to roam, and Oscar continued to operate the tower. There were nights that I would hear her and another person’s voice laughing off the balcony at night. By the rocks, I could make out two silhouettes pointing and yelling at ships passing a mile away from shore. And if we happened to cross paths, she’d fill me in on the latest issues at school, the new play she was in, or who she was smitten with.

As she grew, we remained friends, sometimes even drawing with one another.

“We could do another bird thing?” We were brainstorming a collage

“Didn’t we do seagulls the other week?”

“Seagulls! What about other birds? You could mess with color or somethin’. Cardinals?” 

“I love it!”  We began sketching together; my lines delicate, hers bold; shaky, but confident nonetheless.

Off Duty

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

Off Duty presents an Asbury Park beach with no lifeguard present and a handful of swimmers in the water. It’s late in summer, late in the day, and too late to be bothered. Swim at your own risk!

Excerpt from “Steinway“

by James LaForge

Jerome waded through what was now a sea of leaves that had formed on the sidewalk all the way down Oak Avenue, having to blindly stomp his cane into the ocean of orange as if it were a canoe paddle. The old man checked his watch. It read four-past-eight, which was to be expected as the contraption’s battery had died months ago. Still, Jerome checked it every day without fail. He finally made it to the street corner at about five-past-four-past-eight, right on schedule. An eighteen wheeler barreled by, causing the ground to shake and in turn threatening Jerome’s balance, which was barely hanging on by the jagged tip of his cane. The pedestrian regained his composure and straightened his tie. His face lit up when he saw his 60-seated savior, the local 144 bus bound for Willow Hills Mall.

Jerome defied his slow mobility and made it lickety-split up the bus steps.
“I’ll have the usual,” the old man said through worn vocal chords, having probably been the only person to ever ask for “the usual” on a bus. The bus driver, an old woman herself, knew exactly what he meant. Jerome dropped five dollars and fourteen cents worth of quarters, dimes and pennies into her likewise wrinkled hands.

“Morning, Jerome,” she said as she handed him a round-trip ticket, barely gracing him with a glance. Jerome reciprocated the greeting with an “and to you” and sat down in the third row. The vehicle was entirely empty besides the two golden agers. The bus stayed silent for the length of the 15 minute ride.

The mall’s bright lights pained Jerome’s eyes greatly. This, combined with the intense aroma of buttery pretzel dough, made Jerome dizzy and disoriented. He found himself longing for the crisp outdoor air of two minutes ago and the dry heat of his home, but pushed on towards his destination. He could walk a little faster on the polished floor compared to the street where he was at mother nature’s will. The mall was mostly empty, save a few janitors and the nine a.m. Starbucks crowd. Jerome’s knees buckled as he reached his greatest obstacle: the first floor escalator. A bit of sweat came out of the pores under his arms, proving they still functioned. The old man stumbled across the sawtoothed gap where floor met machine, his eyes half closed. His large heart rested a little as he made it safely aboard.

Jerome reached the apex and spotted the apple of his eye. Old and ancient like him, signs of age all across the body, but somehow still so smooth. Tightly wound, just the way the old man liked. Standing upright, waiting to be touched, felt, sustained, given purpose. Jerome approached his greatest love like a child, shedding the skin off of his old soul and leaving it on the ground behind him.

“I’ve missed you, my love,” the old man gently sounded out with his mouth. Jerome was met with a wonderful response that only he could’ve caused by putting his fingers in the right places. A beautiful chord flowed through the second floor of the Willow Hills Mall. 

Excerpt from “We Are Made of Stardust“

by Peyton Bortner

My breath has grown shallow, I’ve noticed. No matter how much I want to absorb the nature around me, my lungs won’t expand enough to take it all in. I was told I would die soon. Tonight is a great night to go to sleep.

I close my eyes to see if the starry sky is overwhelming my senses, its freckled face vibrant from the lack of light. Unfortunately, no, I am left wanting more, longing for the smell to linger a little longer in my throat.

However, I’m now much closer to the moon. Its body is close enough that I could probably graze it with my fingertips if I were to stand. I long to try, but I can’t seem to feel my legs anymore from the weight of my decaying health. Two years ago, the doctors had told me they could not cure me and warned me this would happen.

The pine has been replaced by primrose, a smell I remember from before the hospital beds and metal, when I spent most of my time in my mother’s garden. There is an echoing ring in the distance; it sounds like it is emanating from the very center of the moon itself. Then, a voice.

“So many people die each day. Tonight it is your time, as well as many other’s, to be reborn.”

the guest that will never come

by McKenzie Janisz

About the Contributor & Piece

McKenzie Janisz (she/her) is a graduating senior at Ramapo studying Music Industry with a minor in Philosophy. She found a new avenue for expression with film photography, recapturing a sense of youthful innocence through the nostalgic medium. In everything McKenzie does, she strives for authenticity, framing her experience genuinely with every shot and every word.

the guest that will never come is for the person in your life who never shows up for you. You invest in the same person time and time again, expecting a different outcome, but are always left feeling incomplete and unresolved. Don’t let them stop your growth.

Excerpt from “The Cowboy (For Sam)“

by Maryn Anderson

The Cowboy

by Maryn Anderson

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Editors’ Notes